The Cold Moon

"An Afor retention," the criminalist said. "Now get to work."

IV

What then is time? If no one asks me, I know what it is. If I wish to explain it to him who asks, I do not know.

– SAINT AUGUSTINE

Chapter 43

The December day wasn't particularly cold but the ancient furnace in Rhyme's town house was on the fritz and everyone in his ground floor lab huddled in thick jackets. Clouds of steam blew from their mouths with every exhalation, and extremities were bright red. Amelia Sachs wore two sweaters and Pulaski was in a padded green jacket from which dangled Killington ski lift tickets like a veteran soldier's campaign medals.

A skier cop, Rhyme reflected. That seemed odd, though he couldn't say why exactly. Maybe something about the dangers of hurtling down a mountain with a hair-trigger 9-millimeter pistol under your bu

"Where's the furnace repair guy?" Rhyme snapped to his aide.

"He said he'll be here between one and five." Thom was wearing a tweed jacket, which Rhyme had given him last Christmas, and a dark purple cashmere scarf, which had been one of Sachs's presents.

"Ah, between one and five. One and five. Tell you what. Call him back and-"

"That's what he told-"

"No, listen. Call him back and tell him we got a report there's a crazed killer loose in his neighborhood and we'll be there to catch him between one and five. See how he likes them apples."

"Lincoln," the patient aide said. "I don't-"

"Does he know what we do here? Does he know that we serve and protect? Call him and tell him that."

Pulaski noted that Thom wasn't reaching for the phone. He asked, "Uhm, you want me to? Call, I mean?"

Ah, the sincerity of youth…

Thom replied to the young officer, "Don't pay him any attention. He's like a dog jumping up on you. Ignore him and he'll stop."

"A dog?" Rhyme asked. "I'm a dog. That's a bit ironic, isn't it, Thom? Since here youare biting the hand that feeds you." Pleased with the retort, he added, "Tell the repairman I think I'm suffering from hypothermia. I really think I am, by the way."

"So you can feel-" the rookie asked, his question braking to a halt.

"Yes, I goddamn well canfeel uncomfortable, Pulaski."

"Sorry, wasn't thinking."

"Hey," Thom said, laughing. "Congratulations!"

"What's that?" the rookie asked.

"You've graduated to last-name basis. He's begi

"But," Sachs said to the rookie, "tell him you're sorry again and you'll be demoted."

The doorbell sounded a moment later and first-name Thom went to answer it.

Rhyme glanced at the clock. The time was 1:02. Could it be that a repairman was actually prompt?

But, of course, this wasn't the case. It was Lon Sellitto, who walked inside, started to take his coat off, then changed his mind. He glanced at his breath billowing from his mouth. "Jesus, Linc, with what the city coughs up for you, you can afford to pay your heating bill, you know. Is that coffee? Is it hot?"

Thom poured him a cup and Sellitto clutched it in one hand as he opened his briefcase with the other. "Finally got it." He nodded at what he now extracted, an old Redweld folder disfigured with faded ink and pencil notations, many of the entries crossed out, evidence of years of frugal municipal government reuse.

"The Luponte file?" Rhyme asked.

"That's it."

"I wanted it last week," the criminalist grumbled, the inside of his nose stinging from the cold. Maybe he'd tell the repairman he'd pay the bill in one to five months. He glanced at the folder. "I'd almost given up. I know how much you love clichés, Lon. Does the phrase 'day late and a dollar short' come to mind?"

"Naw," the detective said amiably, "the one I'm thinking of is 'If you do somebody a favor and they complain, then fuck 'em.'"

"That's a good one," conceded Lincoln Rhyme.

"Anyway, you didn't tell me how classified it was. I had to find that out on my own, and I needed Ron Scott to track it down."

Rhyme was staring at the detective as he opened the file and browsed through it. He felt an acute sense of uneasiness, wondering what he would find inside. Could be good, could be devastating. "There should be an official report. Find it."

Sellitto dug through the folder. He held up the document. On the cover was an old typewritten label that read Anthony C. Luponte, Deputy Commissioner.The folder was sealed with a fading piece of red tape that said, Classified.

"Should I open it?" he asked.

Rhyme rolled his eyes.

"Linc, tell me when the good mood's going to kick in, will you?"

"Put it on the turning frame. Please and thank you."

Sellitto ripped open the tape and handed the booklet to Thom.

The aide mounted the report in a device like a cookbook holder, to which was attached a rubber armature that turned the pages when instructed by a tiny movement from Rhyme's finger on his ECU touch pad. He now began to flip through the document, reading and trying to quell the tension within him.

"Luponte?" Sachs looked up from an evidence table.

Another page turned. "That's it."

He kept reading paragraph after paragraph of dense city government talk.

Oh, come on, he thought angrily. Get to the goddamn point…

Would the message be good or bad?

"Something about the Watchmaker?" Sachs asked.

So far, there'd been no leads to the man, either in New York or in California, where Kathryn Dance had started her own investigation.

Rhyme said, "It doesn't have anything to do with him."

Sachs shook her head. "But that's why you wanted it."

"No, you assumedthat's why I wanted it."

"What's it about then, one of the other cases?" she asked. Her eyes went to the evidence boards, which revealed the progress of several cold cases they'd been investigating.

"Not those."

"Then what?"

"I could tell you a lot sooner if I wasn't interrupted so much."

Sachs sighed.

At last he came to the section he sought. He paused, looked out the window at the stark brown branches populating Central Park. He believed in his heart that the report would tell him what he wanted to hear but Lincoln Rhyme was a scientist before all else and distrusted the heart.

Truth is the only goal…

What truths would the words reveal to him?

He looked back at the frame and read the passage quickly. Then again.

After a moment he said to Sachs, "I want to read you something."

"Okay. I'm listening."

His right finger moved on the touch pad and the pages flipped back. "This is from the first page. Listening?"

"I said I was."

"Good. 'This proceeding is and shall be kept secret. From June eighteenth to June twenty-ninth, ninety seventy-four, a dozen New York City police officers were indicted by a grand jury for extorting money from shopkeepers and businessmen in Manhattan and Brooklyn and accepting bribes to fail to pursue criminal investigations. Additionally, four officers were indicted for assault pursuant to these acts of extortion. Those twelve officers were members of what was known as the Sixteenth Avenue Club, a name that has become synonymous with the heinous crime of police corruption.'"

Rhyme heard Sachs take a fast breath. He looked up and found her staring at the file the way a child stares at a snake in the backyard.

He continued reading. "'There is no trust greater than that between the citizens of these United States and the law enforcement officers who are charged with protecting them. The officers of the Sixteenth Avenue Club committed an inexcusable breach of this sacred trust and not only perpetuated the crimes they were meant to prevent but brought inestimable shame upon their courageous and self-sacrificing brothers and sisters in uniform.